


meet me in the woods

by rideahorse



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bathing/Washing, Dancing, Getting Together, Hands, M/M, Magic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideahorse/pseuds/rideahorse
Summary: Molly can’t remember the first time he noticed Caleb’s hands.Now, after the months of traveling together, the only thing he knows is that he can’t stop thinking about them.





	meet me in the woods

**Author's Note:**

> *marie antoinette voice* let them be soft
> 
> here is a playlist of songs that i listened to while writing this: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYv4ToVMFr1R932srAB3lT7Wy0hZ_fMIv

Molly can’t remember the first time he noticed Caleb’s hands.

 

Now, after the months of traveling together, the only thing he knows is that he can’t stop thinking about them.

 

They are thin, and calloused, and his fingernails are burned short from the flames he so often yields.  They are occasionally caked in a thin layer of dirt and grime, though he has been getting better at taking care of himself these days.  And they are ever so careful, each movement intentional and calculated. 

 

Molly has seen a lot of hands in his days, knows how to watch hands to know when he is getting swindled, but Caleb’s hands are something else.  

 

Caleb doesn’t like to be touched, Molly knows, but he doesn’t mind being the one doing the touching.  At least, as far as he can tell—and he is pretty good at telling these things.  And Caleb seems to be getting more and more comfortable with touching over the months since they’ve met.

 

Molly’s seen as Caleb grabs Beau’s shoulder without warning, shifting into Frumpkin’s eyes, or claps Fjord on the arm in congratulations, or lets Jester tug him by the hand through the city, or lets Yasha maintain his shave with careful hands.  But hardly ever has Caleb gone to touch Molly—a fact that has wormed its way into Molly’s carefully constructed laissez-faire façade.

 

He watched, earlier, as Nott had pulled the scraps of a spell book out of her tiny cloak, handing it over to Caleb while beaming with pride.  And Caleb had scooped her up without hesitation into his arms, laughing and pressing kisses to the top of her head, whispers of, _You are magnificent, you little thief, my friend._

 

Now it’s later, and they are winding down back in the tavern, having a few drinks before heading to bed.  The conversation is dwindling, and Molly finds himself watching Caleb, nose buried in his tankard.

 

Caleb is deep in this new book, one hand running down the pages as he reads and the other scratching behind Frumpkin’s ears.  Nott sits beside him, curling into his side and admiring the earrings she had stolen earlier that day, turning them each way in the light.

 

Molly doesn’t think that Caleb would notice a thing in the world, not with how he sits hunched over this treasure.

 

Placing his tankard on the table, Molly makes a tiny sound, a short whistle.  Caleb doesn’t look up.  But Frumpkin does, and makes a curious mew. 

 

To Molly’s delight, the cat stands and crosses the wood towards him.  Caleb’s hand follows for a moment, flailing in the open air, and then—Molly gasps—landing on Nott’s head.  The fingers resume their scratching, tangling in the thick hair.  Nott shuffles closer into his coat, saying nothing.

 

“Remarkable,” Molly whispers to himself, petting Frumpkin.

 

He imagines the blunt scrape of nails against his own scalp, and fights back a shiver.

 

“Do you think they can hear anything?” says Yasha, taking a seat beside him.

 

“There is one way to find out,” he says.  He glances over at her with a small grin, then leans closer over the table.  “Mr. Caleb, you are looking darling today.”

 

Yasha sighs.  “Oh, dear.”

 

“Leave him alone,” Nott murmurs lowly, looking up through her eyelashes at Molly.  She adjusts her position, giving Caleb better access to the area behind her ears.

 

“Well, _someone_ can hear me,” says Molly. 

 

“Does Caleb have trouble hearing?” asks Yasha.

 

“No, he can hear you,” Nott says after a moment’s hesitation.  She looks back at Molly in suspicion.  “Well, sometimes.  If he chooses to.  If it’s something his ears like.  Sort of like how _I_ can hear you most of the time, because you are loud and annoying, but I only listen when you offer me food or threaten me.  His ears are smaller though, so I don’t know if he picks up on as much.  Especially when reading.”

 

“Ah.”  Molly sits back in his seat. “Caleb, I do have a question about this book of yours—“

 

Caleb glances up instantly. He blinks a few times as if coming out of a stupor.  “Ah, yes?” 

 

His hand stills in Nott’s hair, and she scoffs.  Giving Molly one last glare, she hops off of the bench and weaves her way through the room toward the bar.

 

“That _is_ a neat trick,” Yasha murmurs, and follows after Nott.

 

“Well, you seem so invested.  Is it a special book?”  Molly folds his hands, resting his chin on them.

 

Caleb glances back down at the pages.  “Well, ja, I believe it will help the, ah, the group.  And I am happy to learn new spells, always.”

 

“That’s good,” Molly says.  “I’m glad I found some way to get your attention.”

 

Caleb swallows.  He keeps his gaze on the book.  “You already had my attention, before.”

 

“Did I, now?” Molly asks, surprised. But he receives no response. Caleb’s head stays buried deeper in the book, ears pink.  He thinks about Nott’s words, and watches Caleb decidedly trying to _not_ hear him.  He smiles.  “I meant it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fjord’s torch casts flickers of light through the tunnel, reflecting in the whites of Caleb’s eyes.  Molly wonders what he’s seeing through Frumpkin.  He wonders what Caleb’s hands would feel like on his own shoulders.  Or elsewhere, it doesn’t really matter to him.

 

Nott calls for Fjord from further down the tunnel, interrupting Molly’s musings.  Fjord glances about, spotting Molly and, in one swift motion, removes Caleb's hands from his shoulders and passes them off to Molly. 

 

Molly watches as Fjord sprints off after Nott, plummeting the tunnel into darkness.  He waits for his dark vision to adjust, then turns to Caleb.  Eyes still white, still blind, still deaf.  He feels the slight coolness of Caleb's hands in his, adjusts them both so that he can walk backward slowly.

 

"Mr. Caleb," he greets.

 

Caleb seems jostled by the transition of hands, brows scrunched together and eyes still that unnerving milky-white.  One hand releases Molly’s, sliding lithely up over Molly's wrist, forearm, bicep.  Molly holds his breath a moment, startled by the sudden touch, and the way Caleb's calloused fingers feel brushing just barely against his shoulder.

 

Caleb's brow softens.  "Ah.  Mollymauk."

 

Molly wants to ask what about his arm gives him away.  “You’re touching me,” he says instead, knowing Caleb can’t hear him.

 

“The sun is setting.  I believe, ah, we will be fine shortly, if no one has caught on yet.”

 

Molly grins softly to himself, turning and placing Caleb’s hands on his shoulders, his own hands covering them.  He leads them further into the mines, following the distant sounds of Nott successfully disabling a trap as Jester cheers her on.  He can only imagine the ruckus the rest of their group might be stirring up, but here, in the darkness, it is just him and Caleb.

 

Caleb stumbles slightly, perhaps tripping on a rock Molly hadn’t seen, and his hands tighten on Molly’s shoulders.  Molly runs his fingers over Caleb’s knuckles, apologetically, trying to ease the tension back out of his hands.

 

“Sorry, love,” he whispers.  “I’ll keep a better—“

 

“Someone is talking, nearby.”  There’s a beat of silence as Caleb—as Frumpkin—listens in.  “Ja, I believe—I believe that is Yasha.  She is getting closer.”

 

They head around a bend in the tunnel, and Caleb adjusts his hands, one finding its way closer to the nape of Molly’s neck, his thumb brushing the bare skin above Molly’s collar.  Molly imagines how it would feel if the hand continued upward, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging, wrapping around his horns.  He hums at the thought.

 

“You have very nice hands, you know?  It’s an utter cruelty to keep them off of me,” Molly says to the darkness.

 

There’s a hitch in breath from behind him, and he glances over his shoulder to make sure Caleb hasn’t tripped again, and finds himself face-to-face with bright blue eyes.   The eyes glance around aimlessly in the darkness, still blinded despite his return to his body.  Molly holds his breath, heartbeat quickening at the realization that Caleb had likely heard that.

 

Caleb opens his mouth, closes it.  His hands twitch on Molly’s shoulders.  “I—Yasha—she is coming down to join us now.  The gates are locked.  I am going to return now.”

 

The lie piques Molly’s interest, especially because it is a bad one.  Caleb is not normally a bad liar; Molly has watched the lies flow out of his mouth often, when they are in sticky situations.  _This is my daughter_ , holding Nott to his chest.  _I am a traveling writer_ , adjusting a pair of spectacles.  _I’m here to relieve your duty_ , adorned in a crown’s guard uniform.

 

An experienced actor himself, Molly has to appreciate Caleb’s ability to lie.  But this one is not one of Caleb’s usual lies.

 

He keeps his mouth shut, turning back away from Caleb and continuing to lead him forward.

 

“Welcome back,” he says.

 

“Where are the others?” Caleb asks.

 

“Just a bit ahead.  We were with Fjord, as you know, and then—well, Nott ran into something.”

 

“Nott—she is not hurt, correct?”

 

“No, no” he says breezily, and has to stop himself from giving Caleb’s hands a reassuring squeeze, not sure if he has crossed a line somewhere and desperate to keep from pushing it.  “She is getting better at finding traps _without_ triggering them.”

 

“Good,” Caleb says, and one of his hands begins tracing its way back down Molly’s right arm, stopping to loosely circle just beneath his elbow.  His other hand disappears from Molly’s shoulder, and Caleb steps to the side, linking his arm through Molly’s.  “That is good.”

 

To Molly, this arrangement is much more…familiar, but casual at the same time.  How he imagines husband and wife, walking arm-in-arm through the market.  He can’t imagine Caleb views it in the same light, however, or they would not be in the position to begin with. 

 

Slowly, tentatively, he places his hand over Caleb’s on his arm, as if in an attempt to anchor him in place.  There is a slight twitch in the fingers beneath his, a tensing, then relaxing, and the fingers stay in place. 

 

Footsteps echo behind them and they both freeze, Molly turning to see a pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel, growing closer.

 

“Mollymauk?” Caleb asks.

 

“Just Yasha,” Molly breathes as he sees the outline of a familiar figure in the far-away torchlight.

 

“Oh,” Caleb says. 

 

Yasha nears them, torch held aloft, lips quirking nearly imperceptibly in the corners.  Molly squints in the light, eyes adjusting.  He turns to see if the torch light is enough for Caleb and spots him staring down at their linked arms.

 

“Did you get lost?” Yasha asks.  “Or did the rest of them?”

 

“Thought we’d relax, take a little bit of a stroll,” Molly says smoothly, lips quirking into a grin.  “It can be romantic in the dark.”

 

“We should catch up with the others,” Caleb says, and in an instant the contact is gone. 

 

Molly watches Caleb nod a greeting to Yasha, stepping away without so much as a second glance to Molly.  The sudden lack of contact is, he is willing to admit, far more disappointing than he would like.

 

Molly lags behind a few steps, frowning in thought.  It occurs to him that Caleb had not needed to wait for Yasha’s torch to see, not needed to use Molly as a guide through the dark, not when he has four globules of light always at his disposal.  And perhaps he was just saving his magic, for later, but Molly really, _really_ wants to believe that isn’t the case.

 

“Huh,” he says to himself, and goes to catch up.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Mollymauk.”

 

Mollymauk turns in time to grab the tome that is shoved into his arms.  A glance over his shoulder tells him that the combined mental effort of the rest of their group has begun divvying up coin. 

 

Caleb pulls the book open in Molly’s arms, begins flipping through the pages until he comes across the right one.  He glances up at Molly.  “Sit, please.”

 

The two of them sit, Caleb folding his legs neatly beneath him as he begins to lay out his ritual spell components.  He glances up at the pages every now and then, brows furrowed in concentration, and Molly can’t help but find it _incredibly_ endearing.  He watches Caleb’s eyes scan the pages—quick, quicker than he would think possible, Caleb’s hands moving on their own accord.  Caleb mumbles words under his breath, and Molly can just barely feel the magic in the air around them begin to ripple, like sitting at the eye of a storm.

 

He leans forward, cocking his head.

 

“Mr. Caleb,” he says.

 

Caleb blinks, glancing up with a look of mild annoyance.  The magic dissipates.  But this look disappears at Molly’s next words:

 

“Would you teach me?”

 

“Teach you?”

 

“I promise I’m a better student than Jester,” he continues, grin wicked.

 

Caleb laughs softly, looking almost surprised at himself, and nods quickly.  He scoots forward, and Molly feels the magic crackle in the air around him once more—this time not from the arcane words, but from Caleb’s excitement alone.

 

“Ja.  Ja, I would be glad to.”

  

* * *

 

 

The Harvest Festival catches Molly and the rest of them off-guard, as they trudge back from another contracted manhunt to a town full of merchants and music and spirit.  The streets are full with small carts selling trinkets and taverns opening their windows to sell directly onto the street.  They all agree to spare a day, maybe a night, and enjoy it.  They deserve it, after all.

 

And so Molly watches his motley crew disperse into the fray, losing Jester to dancers in the center of the square, and Beau to some competition of strength, and Nott likely to pick some pockets.  Even Caleb seems to enjoy himself after sampling a few ales and coming across a small book vendor.  He stands beside Molly, quietly turning the pages of a new treasure.

 

Molly is nursing a slight buzz and, watching the festivities around him, reveling in it.  This is exactly his element. 

 

He watches as Jester breaks away from the crowd of dancers, all eager bumbling energy, and heads over to them.  Her face is split into a huge grin, and she bows exaggeratedly, holding out her hand.  Molly almost reaches his own hand out to accept, before realizing that she’s asking Caleb, beside him. 

 

Caleb’s cheeks are flushed, either from the invitation or the libations; Molly isn’t sure.  His Adam’s apple bobs a bit as he swallows, and Molly’s eyes lap up the motion eagerly.  And then he inclines his head slightly, placing his hand in Jester’s. She cheers triumphantly, just as surprised as Molly, and leads him off.

 

The two of them begin with a quicker version of a waltz, trying to match the fast tempo of the festival music.  Though out of earshot, Molly watches Caleb’s mouth move, lips quirked in a shy smile, likely giving Jester instructions as he leads them.  She is laughing, and he can imagine the jerky compliment she gives him, _Oh, Caleb, you’re such a good dancer, you should dance more often with us._  

 

Molly wishes that he could be the one complimenting him, feeling one of Caleb’s hands press firmly into the small of his back as he lets himself be led.

 

But still, to even be able to see this—Caleb dancing, smiling, enjoying himself… He could not have gotten this months ago.  This is a treat in itself.

 

 _We’ve really come so far_ , he thinks, resting his chin on his palm and watching.  Another scan along the crowd reveals Fjord, rubbing Beau’s shoulders as she is locked in an arm wrestling match.  Yasha, a couple stalls away, picking through a selection of delicate glass flowers with a small grin.  And Nott—

 

“Molly,” a voice croaks beside him. 

 

He jumps, glancing down and grinning.  “There you are, my friend.”

 

Nott stands straighter, adjusting the porcelain mask on her face.  “I was wondering—would you like to dance?”

 

Molly pushes off of the wall he had been leaning against, extending her a hand.  “Of course I would; do you even need to ask?  You can even stand on my feet if you’d like.”

 

Nott’s eyes narrow, and he can imagine the face she must be making under the mask—nose scrunched, faintest bit of teeth peeking out between her lips. 

 

“I don’t think so,” she says, taking his hand anyways and tugging him into the crowd with a bit more force than necessary.

 

The band starts up another song, this one even faster than the last, and Molly finds the drinks to have muddled his nerves just enough to lose a step or two in the dance.  Nott, fortunately, seems to know what she’s doing—or at least be confident enough in her missteps.  She grips his hands in hers, nails nearly digging in, and expertly weaves them through the other couples.  Her steps are hurried, and short, and he almost feels as though they are attempting to escape.

 

He opens his mouth.  “Slow down, love, it’s just a dance—“

 

“I _am_ dancing,” she says, matter-of-factly.  “You just need to let me lead.”

 

His breath escapes him in a laugh.  “Well, alright, then.”  He makes an apologetic face at a man whose shoulder he just bumped, and turns back to her.  “I am larger than you, though, try to lead with care.”

 

She nods and the steps quicken once more, leaving him stumbling backwards as she peeks around his elbow to guide.

 

He glances behind him and spots Jester’s familiar blue through the madness, and then she disappears behind another dancer, dragging Caleb with her.  Then, he sees a scruff of auburn hair a couple feet closer, before it vanishes.  Then, a glimpse of a horn, just a few steps away.

 

The song ends just as he turns back to Nott, mouth open in question, but she gives a sharp tug to his wrist.

 

“And, spin!” she instructs, pulling him off balance and sending him stumbling toward the right. 

 

His chest slams into another, knocking the wind out of him for a moment.  His hands scramble for purchase on the person in front of him, gripping tightly into a pair of sleeves.  “Sorry—“ he starts, and stops at the sight of Caleb in front of him, looking equally surprised.

 

“Oh, dear!” Jester yelps, peeking out from behind Caleb.  “We are supposed to switch partners, I guess?”

 

Nott dashes over to her, grabbing her hands, the two of them already backpedaling away.  “Yes, you know the rules, if you bump into someone you have to kill them or switch partners, and we wouldn’t want to kill them—“

 

Caleb finally tears his gaze from Molly.  “I don’t think that is how it works,” he says softly.

 

The band picks up again, a new song, slower than the previous two.

 

“Oh, well, song is starting, got to go,” Jester adds, and the two of them disappear into the crowd.

 

Molly feels a dreadful flush starting to form on his cheeks as the reality of the situation sinks in, and he does his best to avoid looking back at Caleb for a moment.  Were this anyone else, he would feel the smooth flirtation on the tip of his tongue already, the gentle teasing.  But this is Caleb, and no words come to mind.  At least, no words that seem right.  The cheap flirtations might just scare him off.

 

Another couple, already beginning to move with this new song, bumps into them, and it jostles him out of his thoughts.  He glances back at Caleb, removing his hands from Caleb’s sleeves, apology already on his tongue.

 

“I’m—“

 

“Mollymauk. Would you like to dance?”

 

Molly’s mouth snaps shut at the earnest, albeit terribly embarrassed, expression on Caleb’s face.  Caleb glances down at the space between them, and Molly realizes he has a hand extended in offering. 

 

“It, uh, would be rude of me to not ask, given that we are already…here,” Caleb elaborates.

 

Molly blinks at the hand.  One of Caleb’s hands, that he has longed to touch for so long, palm open and ready for the taking.  It seems entirely too good to be true, and for a moment, he almost doesn’t think it is.

 

Caleb swallows, hand dropping an inch, but before he can let it fall, Molly reaches up and takes it.  He squeezes it, positioning it to his left. 

 

“Well, I reckon you’d be a much better teacher than Nott,” he says, and a breath of laughter escapes Caleb’s lips.

 

“I have been trying to teach her, but she is not as good a learner of dance as she is one of magic,” he informs Molly, sliding a hand behind Molly’s back and beginning to step along with the beat.

 

Molly is not entirely incapable of keeping to a rhythm; he can dance along just fine, good, even, but Caleb is something else entirely.  Though rusty from years being out of practice, Molly can tell from the gentle, sure movements Caleb takes that he once must’ve been phenomenal.

 

“Perhaps you should teach me instead, then,” Molly says.  “I’m a quick learner, and I’m willing to prove that comes to many things, not just ritual spells.”

 

Caleb glances away, cheeks flushed.  He steers them in a gentle arc between other dancing pairs.  “I do not think there will be much more dancing anytime soon, once we leave this town.”

 

This much is true.  Molly doesn’t know what lies in their future, far-off or even immediate.  But now they _are_ dancing, Caleb’s hand warm at the small of his back, and he can just barely make out what feels like a thumb gently stroking the fabric of his coat, almost absent-mindedly.

 

“Fair enough,” he says, lips stretching into a grin.  “I guess we might as well enjoy it now, then.”

 

Caleb doesn’t meet his eye, instead looking out among the crowd.  But he is smiling nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

 

Through the haze of steam and lightly lavender-scented water, Molly catches sight of the unthinkable.

 

Across from him, sitting sandwiched between Yasha and Jester, Caleb is having his hair braided. Jester’s fingers twine in Caleb’s ginger locks, dipping occasionally into the oiled water to help detangle the curls as she deftly twists them into a braid.  It is short, and tightly pressed against his scalp, but expertly woven nonetheless.

 

And beyond that, too—Caleb is _braiding_ Yasha’s hair as well. As Jester weaves, she speaks, mouth moving a mile a minute.  Molly is too far to make out the words exactly, but he can tell they’re instructions. 

 

Caleb has found a section of hair not previously braided or dreaded and is trying his best to follow Jester’s instructions.  Though inexperienced, his fingers are dexterous from years of magic. He seems to be picking it up quickly.

 

Yasha seems to be enjoying it well enough too, with how her eyes are closed in contentment.  Molly has to admit, it has been a while since he has seen a look like that on her.  After a few moments, she leans back slightly towards Caleb’s chest.

 

And _that’s_ an image.  Or, rather, the inspiration for an image: Molly, leaning back himself, flush against Caleb’s chest.

 

Molly lets himself slowly start sinking into the warm water, feeling the heat race up his shoulders and past his neck, stopping just short of his mouth.

 

“I feel like I’m in a dream,” Beau says wistfully.  She sits beside Molly, arms stretched across the edge of the bath behind her.

 

“I may be wrong here,” begins Fjord from Molly’s other side, “but for some reason, I feel like we shouldn’t be watching this.”

 

Caleb reaches the end of the braid, and turns to glance over his shoulder at Jester for more instruction about what to do.  Jester grins, reaching around his shoulders from either side to help him knot the end, her front pressing against his back. 

 

And _that’s_ a new image entirely.

 

Molly lets the water rise up past his nose, keeping just his eyes peeking out above the surface.

 

Caleb listens to Jester, nodding slowly, and then turns back to finish the knot.  But as he does, his gaze passes over the rest of them, and his eyes stick on Molly for just too long of a moment.  Molly watches Caleb’s face redden, watches as Caleb fumbles with the braid and lets it slip through his grasp for the first time.

 

Molly panics, dunks his head under the water, waiting until his lungs begin to burn.

 

“I mean, this is some boudoir shit,” Beau is saying as he resurfaces. She glances at Fjord.

 

“Some what now?”

 

“It’s an art thing I learned one time.”  She holds out a thumb in front of her, one eye squinted to obscure part of her view.  “I mean, if you just cover Caleb up like… _there_ …it’s practically heaven.  Lucky bastard.”

 

Nott pipes up from behind them, where she has been sitting on the tiles a few feet away, sipping a drink.  “I’ll have you know, Caleb is the most handsome one here.”

 

“Well, now,” says Fjord, throwing a grin that borders on sultry over his shoulder.

 

“You’re not my type,” she says.

 

“You know I like you, Nott,” Beau says.  “But as one woman to another, you’re fuckin’ blind.”

 

“My vision is better than yours,” Nott protests.  “Caleb is very handsome.  Just ask Molly.”

 

“Molly?” Fjord asks, and Molly feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as three heads turn in his direction.

 

“Yes, isn’t that right, Molly?” Nott prompts.

 

But Molly isn’t listening, because Caleb has managed to secure the knot, and Yasha is admiring the bit of finished braid that manages to drape over her shoulder and Jester is clapping her hands behind them, and…and Molly is slinking through the water towards them.

 

Yasha spots him making his way over first, and says nothing, silently making her way past him towards the others.

 

Then Jester spots him, and he hears, “Oh, Molly, come look at what I did to Caleb!”

 

Molly holds himself straighter in the water, his shoulders prickling at the colder air as they rise above the surface. Caleb watches him, saying nothing.

 

“It is very nice,” he says, and though his words are aimed at Jester, he somehow can’t bring himself to look away from Caleb.  “Very nice indeed.”

 

Caleb swallows.  “Thank you, Mollymauk,” he says. His hands slowly sink towards the water.

 

Molly reaches out, and grabs one.  Before he can think the better of it, he guides the hand to his own hair, now wet and hanging limply over his forehead.  Caleb’s eyes are wide, and he opens his mouth to protest.

 

“Perhaps you might have room for one more client?” Molly tries.

 

Caleb’s mouth shuts.  Molly thinks he can see, out of the corner of his eye, Jester clap two excited hands over her mouth.  He imagines he can hear a breath of laughter escape Yasha’s mouth, maybe even a groan from behind him as Beau realizes she’s lost to Nott.  But he ignores it.

 

“I don’t know if I can do…shorter hair, like Jester can,” says Caleb.  “She would be better at this than me.”

 

Molly tilts his head, and Caleb’s hand follows along with the motion, fingers running over the ridges of one of his horns and ending up by his temple.

 

“I didn’t ask Jester,” Molly says.

 

Caleb clears his throat, and glances at Jester, but she is already wading back towards the others with a cheeky grin they both ignore.  “Ja, well.  Ah, have a seat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Across the room, a man is flirting with Caleb.  It’s going poorly, Molly can tell, but it’s happening nonetheless.  And it makes his stomach—already way too full with imbibements—feel queasy.

 

“Should we do something?” he asks, catching Beau and Yasha’s attention.  “We should definitely do something.  Shouldn’t we?”

 

The man reaches a hand out, running it up Caleb’s arm.  Caleb throws him an irritated look, casually reaches up and removes the hand from his arm.  But the man must think he is playing coy, because he steps closer, leaning one arm on the bar and the other on Caleb.

 

“I mean, look at that.”  Molly flings his hand out, pointing in Caleb’s direction.  “Look at him.  He _hates_ it.”

 

Beau and Yasha follow his gaze, Beau’s frown deepening.

 

“Are you going to do something about it?” she asks him.

 

Molly takes another swig of his tankard, unable to tell if the drink is making him feel better or worse.  Because along with the—what, jealousy? It must be jealousy—Molly also feels a pang of guilt, for having touched Caleb like that, when he didn’t know if Caleb was willing.

 

“Me?” he says, words coming out a bit more slurred than he intends. “I would make it worse.  Caleb hates being touched, and that’s all I seem to do. I’m a—I’m a terrible friend, because you know what? I just wanna go over there and touch him all over until that man leaves him alone.”

 

“Molly,” Yasha whispers.

 

“He would _hate_ me,” Molly whines.  He slams his drink back down on the table.

 

“Ah, fuck it,” Beau says, pushing herself to her feet.  She wobbles slightly, and throws a glare in Molly’s direction.  “Fine, I’ll take care of it.”

 

She stalks off, nudging the stranger with a closed fist.  There’s a brief exchange of words, and Beau places a firm hand on Caleb’s shoulder. Caleb—looking surprised, but extremely grateful—nods at something.  The man steps back, arms raised, and turns to leave.

 

Molly’s breath escapes him in a _whoosh_.

 

“Molly,” Yasha says quietly. 

 

He glances back over to her, raising his glass.  “Good for Beau.”

 

“What makes you think he would hate you?”

 

“Why, because I touch him.  As much as I can.  I can’t help it.”

 

She tilts her head.  “Caleb does not let many people touch him, that is true. But look at him.”

 

Molly follows where she is pointing, and sees Caleb in a heated discussion with Beau, brows furrowed in anger. Beau nods sagely and occasionally raises a fist in a _Yeah, you fuckin’ tell ‘em_ manner.

 

“This is not a man who would let you touch him if he was not okay with it,” Yasha says.

 

He tries to consider her words, but his brain is a bit fuzzy at the moment.  Yasha would not lie to him, he tells himself, glancing back at Caleb and letting the hope bubble up in his chest.

 

“He is an interesting one, but I do not think he would hate you,” she continues.  “You are a caring person.  He would be better off to have someone like you in his life.”

 

Yasha would not lie to him.

 

* * *

 

 

There is danger with their job, Molly forgets far too often.  He is reminded of this as they storm a temple, and get lost in the tunnels beneath.

 

The goal, the _plan_ , must have been clear at some point.  Free innocents from a mind-controlling cultist, some psychotic priest, and prevent it from happening again. But somewhere along the way it goes out the window.

 

The priest manages to get in far too many blows.  And Molly watches as, one-by-one, Fjord falls, and then Beau. Yasha is knocked to her knees, sword clattering away from her.  Molly gasps in pain as the priest manages to strike him, far too deep in his abdomen, and starts to feel the blood running freely. And then Nott fires a crossbow from some unseen location, and the priest throws his arms wide.

 

All of them are flung against the walls of the cavern, some invisible force keeping them pressed there as the walls begin to quiver, and crack.  Rocks tumble down from the ceiling above them, narrowly missing the unconscious bodies of Fjord and Beau. The entire cavern quakes.

 

But Caleb manages to throw up some form of magic, leaving him the sole person standing in front of the priest.

 

“You think you can do whatever you want to people, ja?  That you are above than them?” Caleb screams over the rumbling of the earth.  He takes a careful step over the rubble, pointed movements carrying him closer. 

 

 _No_ , Molly wants to scream.  _Go._

 

“You don’t know what you’re doing!  You know nothing!” The priest hollers back, arms still outstretched, unable to do anything but hold them there. 

 

Molly struggles against the invisible force, hands scrabbling at his own throat as the breath is slowly squeezed out.  His head is beginning to feel lighter, from the lack of oxygen, from the blood steadily seeping from his side.  He watches Caleb stalk forward, eyes trained dead-center on the priest.  Caleb’s hands, held firmly by his sides, crackle, and a dry heat begins to spread through the cavern.

 

“I know plenty,” Caleb hisses, eyes starting to go to that far-away place Molly knows all too well.  “People like us don’t deserve to live.”

 

And then the heat in the air is gone, for an instant, coalescing around Caleb as flames burst into existence on both of Caleb’s hands, licking heat up his arms, scorching the fabric and skin alike.  He extends his arms in front of him, and the flame _leaps_.

 

Molly has seen Caleb use the fire before.  And he isn’t new to killing people, especially evil ones; none of them are.  But the look in Caleb’s eyes is no short of murderous, and the ferocity of the flame as it begins to consume the priest is, if he is being honest, somewhat terrifying.

 

But it frees his friends.

 

Molly slips down from the wall, the spell losing effect as the priest dies in a guttural wail.  He gasps, one hand clutching at his throat, the other at his side.  Across the cavern, Jester scrambles to Fjord, healing words already on her lips.  Yasha pushes herself to a standing position.  Nott tries to drag the unconscious Beau away from the flames.

 

And Caleb stands with conviction, arms outstretched as the flame continues to rage.

 

“Caleb,” Molly gasps, stumbling over in his direction.

 

Caleb blinks at his name. The light in his eyes begins to fade, flames instead reflecting off his face from the bonfire in front of him.  Molly doesn’t care; he keeps his back turned to the flames, making his way instead toward the only one that matters to him in this moment, whose face is slowly being taken over by abject horror.

 

Caleb stares at the flames in front of him, and then looks to Molly, and then down at his hands.  And this is a look of pure fear, of hatred, of burning—

 

“Caleb,” Molly repeats, tuning it all out.

 

He reaches for the hands that are still bristling with dry heat, an aftershock of a bonfire.  Caleb tries to jerk his hands back, as if afraid of hurting Molly, but Molly is too fast.  He grips the hands firmly, turns the palms and presses them against either side of his own face. 

 

It’s a grounding gesture, more than anything.  For both of them.  Molly’s breath still comes short, and Caleb’s hands would be enough to burn skin raw, if not for his resistance to fire.  But the warmth, still a bit painful, is slowly subsiding. Caleb watches with wide eyes.

 

“I’m sor—“ he begins.

 

“Thank you,” Molly says.  “Caleb, _thank you_.  You saved us.”  He presses a kiss to one of the hands, squeezes them tighter, still a bit short of breath.  “You saved us.”

 

Caleb’s face softens, if just in the slightest bit.  For a second, he looks less haunted.

 

And then Molly feels his knees buckle, edges of his vision growing black, and the hands slip out of his grasp.

 

* * *

 

 

Molly wakes to hands at his head, sending waves of cooling energy into his mind and through the rest of his body.

 

He opens his eyes to Jester.

 

“Oh, thank the Traveler, you are alive, I am a _really_ good healer,” she gushes, bending to press a kiss to his forehead. 

 

Molly coughs, and accepts the mug of water Jester hands him.  After the burning in his throat has subsided, he scans a familiar room of their inn—now nighttime.  Perhaps a few hours have passed since he last recalls.

 

“I see you managed to drag me back okay,” he says, a giddy laugh bubbling up in his throat.

 

Jester nods.  “Well, I am very strong.  And so is Yasha.”

 

The curtains are drawn, letting a small sliver of moonlight into the room.  Molly can make out Jester, kneeling by his side.  And her haversack and its contents spilled across the floor haphazardly.  And then, in an old armchair that can’t possibly be comfortable—Caleb, fast asleep, Frumpkin curled up on his lap.  Molly’s heart skips a beat.

 

Jester follows his gaze over to Caleb’s sleeping form.

 

“He was worried about you,” she says softly, brushing one of Molly’s curls back from his forehead.  “We all were.”

 

Molly smiles at her.  “I doubt I was in the worst state, of all of us.”

 

She taps his nose with a finger.  “You would be surprised.  Fjord’s armor prevented a lot of gross internal bloody mess, and Beau…Beau has a thick skull.”

 

“That she does.”

 

“You, on the other hand…You lost a lot of blood, and I was already super duper tired, and I didn’t know if I could do it.”

 

Molly pushes himself to a sitting position.  “Well, color me impressed, as always, dear.”

 

She giggles, waving a hand in a bashful matter.  “Oh, Molly.  It’s late, and you should go back to sleep if you can.  The others will be glad to see you are okay in the morning.”

 

“Very well, I’ll try.”

 

She rises to her feet, padding over to the door, and pauses to look back over her shoulder once more.

 

“I’m happy you’re okay.”

 

“I am too.  Goodnight, dear.”

 

With that, she slips through the door, leaving Molly alone to the darkness and his thoughts and—well, not alone after all.  He glances over to the huddled mass in the arm chair.

 

After a brief moment of indecision, he purses his lips and whistles.  Two amber eyes open, eerily reflective in the dim light.  Slowly, the silhouette curled atop Caleb’s lap rises, stretches, and makes its way to Molly.  Molly smiles as Frumpkin leaps onto the bed, and begins to resettle on his chest.

 

“Hello, love,” he says, scratching behind his ears.  A low rumbling begins to emanate from the tiny creature, far louder than Molly would think possible.  He laughs.  “Well, would you look at that?”

 

“He likes you.”

 

Molly glances over to see Caleb sitting up straighter in his chair, running a tired hand over his face.

 

“The sound, ah, means he likes you.”

 

Molly turns back to Frumpkin, smiling to himself.  The cat purrs, nudging his hand with its head until he resumes the scratching.  “How charming,” he says.  “I wish there was something like this to tell when people liked you.”

 

Caleb chuckles.  “You would not be alone in that.”  A pause.  “I am glad you are okay.”

 

“I, for one, never doubted that I would be,” Molly teases, but as he does, the images from earlier come flooding back.

 

The sight of his friends lying prone around a human bonfire.  The touch of Caleb’s warm hands on his cheeks, against his lips.  The scent of blood, too much blood, and burning.  The sound of, _People like us don’t deserve to live_.

 

“You know, I would be very sad to see you go,” Molly says after a moment.

 

Caleb laughs lightly.  “I am not the one who was turned into a shish-kebab earlier this evening.  You should worry about yourself, friend.”

 

“Yes, but…” He sighs.  None of the words are easy. “I don’t think you are undeserving of living.”

 

It’s quiet for a moment.  When Caleb speaks again, it is slow, like he is reluctant to even talk on the subject.  “You would be one of very few to think that.”

 

“Perhaps.  But I hope you value my opinion, at this point.  I hope you give my words worth.”

 

“I value educated opinions, Mollymauk.  And you…well, you do not know enough about me to say that I am deserving of anything.”

 

Molly turns his head, holding Caleb’s gaze through the dark room for a moment.  He isn’t sure what he finds in that look.  He lowers his eyes again, absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings.  “Would you say Nott deserves good things?”

 

“Well, ja, I would.”

 

“Jester?  Fjord?”

 

“Ja, of course.”

 

“Though you know hardly anything about them?”

 

“Mollymauk, I see what you are—“

 

“I think you deserve all the good things, Caleb.  I really do.”

 

For a moment, there is nothing but silence.  Then, Caleb pushes himself to his feet out of the chair.  Molly is almost worried that he intends to walk straight out, to push all of these words deep inside and lock them away, never to be spoken on again—

 

Instead, Caleb walks over to the bed.  He takes a seat by Molly’s feet, hands folded on his lap.  Frumpkin pads over to him, rubbing along his back.

 

“I intend on being a…better person.  It is hard, and sometimes I feel like I move further backward than forward.  But I want what you say to be the case.  I really do, even if I do not…believe it, just yet.”  Caleb glances over at Molly, face a painting of earnestness.  “Perhaps someday, I may come to believe it.”

 

Molly sits forward, stretching his hand across the sheets.  He covers Caleb’s hands with his own, squeezing the fingers.

 

“Perhaps someday, I will manage to convince you,” he says.

 

Caleb stares at their hands for a moment, and nods.  He then looks up at Molly.  His eyes are still sad, still remorseful, perhaps still wanting.  But he smiles a small smile, and that’s enough for now.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Molly stumbles back to their inn, his legs are heavy and head is light with drunkenness. 

 

The night has been flush with drinks and laughter, and he trails behind the rest of his friends, humming a song beneath his breath with a bit of a dance in his steps.  Just ahead of him is Caleb, who looks back over his shoulder every few moments.  Perhaps he is checking on Molly, out of worry.  Perhaps he just wants to look.

 

Molly grins to himself at the thought, swishing his tail out around him and continuing to hum.

 

They make it to their familiar inn, and his friends disappear through the doors one by one.  Caleb pauses on the stoop, watching Molly catch up the distance with a look of inebriated patience.

 

“Hurry, ah, hurry up,” he slurs, “We do not want to lose our peacock in the night.”

 

Molly throws his head back in a giddy laugh, and Caleb turns from him to hide the smile on his face.

 

Molly moves to follow Caleb into the inn.  The toe of his boot catches on the top step of the stoop, just as Caleb turns back to say something.  The loss of balance is enough to send him stumbling into Caleb, who—in surprise—barely manages to catch them both against the wall of the tavern.

 

Molly blinks, and laughs, one hand on Caleb’s arm and the other on the wall beside Caleb’s head.

 

“Clumsy me,” he murmurs.

 

It’s nearly impossible to tell if Caleb’s face is flushed with drink or embarrassment, but Molly delights in the sight of it nonetheless.  One infuriating tuft of hair dangles over his eye, knocked loose from the impact. Molly’s hand itches to move for it.

 

“That was—you tripping, unintentional?” Caleb asks, a bit breathless. 

 

“Maybe my feet had their own agenda,” Molly replies, lifting his hand from Caleb’s arm to tuck the strand aside.  His fingers brush against Caleb’s cheekbone, and the skin is warmer than usual.  So is the air, despite it being nighttime.  Boiling, suddenly.  A bit stifling.

 

There is the tiniest of movements—Caleb’s skin shifts against his fingers, and his head moves forward a fraction of an inch—and then the amber light of the inn shifts over the stoop as the door opens.

 

Molly steps back instantly, stumbling a bit in the motion, and looks to see Fjord illuminated in the doorway.

 

“Nott is threatening bar patrons with a broken glass bottle,” he says, tiredly.  “Your help would be greatly appreciated.”

 

“Ja, of course,” Caleb says, pushing himself off of the wall.  He throws Molly one last charged, heady look, and follows Fjord into the inn.

 

Molly takes a minute to catch his breath.

 

* * *

 

 

From his seat at the back of their cart, Molly sees a snowflake.

 

He flings himself up from the seat, leaning out over the cart to try and catch it with his hand.  It melts just before contact, leaving behind a sole drop of water, and is soon joined by another, and another.  Jester looks up from her sketch book and squeals, going to join him.

 

Fjord glances back from the front of the cart, seeing the two of them dancing around to try and catch as many snowflakes as possible, tiny bites of cold against their warm skin.

 

“Have neither of you seen snow before?” he asks.

 

Jester gasps.  “It is so magical no matter how many times you see it!”

 

“I think it’s just _cold_ ,” says Beau, folding her arms beneath her cloak.

 

The flakes are beginning to come down heavier and heavier, and Molly can just barely make out their crystalline structures before they vanish inches from his skin.

 

“How much longer do we have to sit through this?” Beau whines.

 

“Jester, I think it’s awfully sweet that you like the snow so much,” says Fjord, with a pointed look to Beau.  “Some of us could learn from your positivity.”

 

“Oh, but without Beau we would know nothing about negativity, Fjord,” says Jester with a grin.

 

Molly grabs Jester’s hand, and sees that she is just as covered in small droplets of water, with no white to be seen, their heat having melted the snow too fast.  He sighs and drops her hand, swiveling in the cart to see—

 

Caleb, tucked into his coat with Frumpkin around his shoulders like a scarf.  He’s buried in a book, likely not having noticed any change in the weather, which Molly finds terribly charming.  The flakes of white are gathering on the top of his head, sticking to the hair without melting.

 

Molly moves over to Caleb, kneeling before him on the wooden bed of the cart, and startling Caleb out of his concentration.

 

Caleb’s lips part as looks up, seeing Molly before him.  And there are the snowflakes, now gathering in his eyelashes, against the bit of beard that he’s grown out since they last were in a town.  Molly ducks his head in closer, alight with childlike wonder.  This close, he can finally make out the crystalline structures, each one different from the next.  They’re beautiful.  Caleb is—

 

Caleb sucks in a breath.  “Mollymauk--?”

 

Molly reaches out in attempt to touch one of the snowflakes, but it melts before he can get too close, leaving a droplet of water that curves down over Caleb’s lips.

 

Molly swallows, forgetting the reason he had bound over in the first place.  “I’m sorry for startling you.  I just wanted to admire the, uh, the snow.”

 

Caleb nods, and glances over Molly’s face, brow furrowed.  After a moment, he snaps his fingers, and Frumpkin leaps over onto Molly’s shoulders, snuggling in against his neck.  Caleb reaches out, pulling the lapels of Molly’s coat tighter over his chest.

 

“Stay warm,” Caleb says.  “It will do no one good to have you getting sick.”

 

* * *

 

 

The books are heavy in Molly’s coat as he bursts into the tavern post-shopping trip, making his way over to the table where Caleb sits. 

 

He plops himself down across from Caleb, making Caleb jump.

 

“Molly—“

 

“I have _such_ a treat for you.  I saw something in the marketplace and thought of you and, well, I couldn’t _not_ get it,” Molly says, and opens his coat.  He pulls out the first book, Caleb’s eyes brightening at the first emergence of its pages.  The book is placed on the table, and Molly sits back, hands open in invitation.

 

Caleb grins at him, and snatches it closer.

 

He flips open the top cover eagerly.  And then his cheeks and ears go a brilliant shade of red as he finds the drawn image that had made Molly buy the book in the first place—a tiefling woman, breasts practically spilling out of her corset, gazing up at the rugged human man holding her.

 

“I thought you could read it to me,” he says, gazing at Caleb through his lashes, one corner of his lips quirking upwards.

 

Caleb stares at him, wide-eyed.  And then, surprisingly, laughs.

 

“This book made you think of me, Molly?” He claps the cover closed, shaking his head.  “You are a funny one, indeed.”

 

Caleb’s hands wring around themselves, all nervous (dare Molly hope desirous?) energy, and then they disappear under the edge of the table.

 

Molly’s grin stretches wider.  “And _that_ is a conversation we need to have on another day, Mr. Caleb.  Why should I not think of you when seeing handsome romance heroes? But, you are right, that is not the book I was talking about.”

 

He reaches back into his cloak and pulls out the book, the _real_ book, the one littered with fancy arcane symbols that he had spotted buried under a pile of smut.  He pushes it across the table.

 

“ _This_ is the one that made me think of you.”

 

Slowly, more suspiciously, Caleb reaches for it.  His hand pauses on the cover, fingers brushing against Molly’s.

 

“You are not playing another trick on me, ja?”

 

“I would _never_.”

 

Shaking his head ruefully, he takes the book from Molly, and flips open the cover.  And then his tiny smile disappears to a look of genuine surprise.

 

The air around him ripples and crackles, like the air just before a lightning strike.  Molly feels the magic funneling into Caleb as his eyes scan the pages, flipping through more and more rapidly.  Caleb looks up at him.  “How—how much was this?”

 

“However much it was—which frankly I forget at this point—it surely was worth it to be able to see the expression on your face.”

 

“This is too much,” Caleb breathes, running his fingers down one page in awe.

 

“I told you that you deserve all the nice things.”

 

“Too much,” Caleb repeats.  “I do not—Molly, I do not have a gift for you.”

 

Molly waves a hand, words coming out before he can think better of it.  “Love, you are enough of a gift, being my friend.”

 

Caleb looks up from the pages, biting his lip.  He stares at Molly for long enough that Molly feels his face start to heat up.  Molly shifts in his seat, about to apologize when—

 

“I can do more than that. Come, sit.”  Caleb pats the bench beside him.  “I will teach you.”

 

Molly grins, nods, rises.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time they manage to make it to a bath house, Caleb asks Yasha for a shave.

 

Molly slips into the water with grace, ignoring how Beau and Jester have somehow managed to start a splash fight against Fjord in the next pool over, and makes his way over to Caleb and Yasha.  He watches as Yasha maneuvers the dagger in her hands, curving it along Caleb’s jaw and down his neck.

 

Caleb’s eyes are closed, head lying against the edge of the bath, and he looks rather peaceful like this.  One eye peeks open as Molly sidles up beside him, admiring Yasha’s work in progress.

 

“You’re getting quite good at this, my dear,” Molly says.

 

Yasha hums in response, turning Caleb’s cheek to the side with one finger to better reach below his ear.

 

“Though you have quite a nice canvas,” he continues, an easy smile taking up residence as Caleb opens both eyes.  “It’s hard to improve on a masterpiece, but you manage it gracefully.”

 

Caleb looks like he wishes to say something, but Yasha grips his chin and drags the knife along his upper lip, keeping him silent.

 

“Maybe you should try your hand at it, then.  I know you have always wished to be an artist,” Yasha murmurs, glancing at Molly with a sparkle in her eye.  She picks up the dagger and angles it lazily in Molly’s direction.

 

Caleb picks his head up off the edge of the basin, and runs a hand over the clean-shaven half of his face.

 

“I feel a bit like I am being ambushed,” he says, but the words are light.

 

Molly takes the dagger from Yasha, weighing it in his hand.  “Well, it’s not an ambush we’ve had planned.  Would you mind terribly if it were?”

 

Caleb ponders the words, and lays his head back down.  “Get on with it.”

 

“Yasha, a little instruction?”

 

Yasha nods, taking Molly’s hand and guiding it to Caleb’s face.  At the feeling of the cold metal, the furrow between Caleb’s brows deepens, then relaxes after a moment.  

 

“You must be gentle, but firm,” she says, guiding his hand down over Caleb’s jaw.  “Take slow, decisive motions.” 

 

Molly gets the hang of it quickly, lifting his other hand to angle Caleb’s face as he sees fit.  He watches as Caleb relaxes further into the monotony of the touch, breath coming slowly from slightly parted lips.  His facial hair is rough, but falls easily against the sharpened blade, leaving behind smooth pale skin—freshly clean from the grime of the woods where they had been camping.

 

After a few moments of observation, Yasha silently takes her leave, and Molly is left alone with Caleb. 

 

The bath house is loud with the noise of their friends, but it may as well be silent in the few inches between them.  And yes, he realizes, he has gotten awfully close to Caleb through the course of the shave, focused on the job at hand.  Having started to the side of Caleb, he is now slightly overlapping with his front. The heat of Caleb’s chest presses against him. One of his forearms rests languidly on Caleb’s shoulder, fingers having found their way to the soft point of his jugular.  The pulse beneath them flutters. 

 

The blade falters, stilling just above the skin of Caleb’s cheek.

 

Caleb peeks open his eyes again.  “Is everything alright?”

 

Molly takes a slow breath, admits honestly, “Just admiring, love.”

 

A flush creeps its way up Caleb’s shoulders, cheeks, ears.  He swallows.  Carefully, he lifts one hand from the water and encircles Molly’s wrist, moving Molly’s hand away from his face.

 

“I am not…opposed to you admiring,” he says slowly.  “Or the ambush, planned or not.  But you have a dagger near my face, and I would rather not wind up bleeding.“

 

Molly laughs lightly, nodding his head.  “That is a fair point, Mr. Caleb. I promise, I will give you my utmost attention.”

 

“I do not doubt that,” he says, closing his eyes once more, small grin on his lips.

 

Molly blinks.  “Are—are you teasing me?”

 

This time, one eye opens, and the expression looks akin to a wink.  The _yes_ is left unspoken. “I am simply saying…I trust you.”

 

They are said lightly, but the words mean a great deal to him.  After a moment, Molly shakes the surprise out of his head, and lifts the dagger once more.

 

* * *

 

 

“I see what you’re doing,” Nott says, making Molly look up from the book on the table in front of him.  She sips from her flask, eyeing him warily.

 

Molly rests his chin on his palm.  “Do you? I promise, little one, I am not trying to bother him.”

 

“No,” she agrees.  “You’re not.  You’re falling for him.”

 

Molly blinks.  The yellow eyes staring at him from across the table are far too intelligent for their own good.  For _his_ own good.  And really, is there any point in him lying?  Denial and secrecy can carry one far, but only as far as the stupidity of the person you are trying to deceive. 

 

Nott is not stupid.

 

He inclines his head slightly, smiling down at the book.  “You are right about that.”

 

Nott is quiet for a moment.  Then she rolls her eyes and takes another swig, saying, “I truly do think I am the only one in this group with _any_ sound judgment.”

 

“You may likely be,” says Caleb, reappearing behind Molly’s shoulder with three tankards.  He places them on the table, giving a small—perhaps secretive—grin to Molly, like they are sharing a joke, and _oh_ , Molly is so glad to be a part of it.

 

Nott frowns, but it looks like she’s struggling to maintain it.  “You look happy.”

 

Caleb pushes one of the tankards over towards her.  “I am.  It has been a good night.”

 

“Well, we can’t let it end here, can we?” Molly says, taking a sip of his drink.  He taps the page of the book with one finger.  “We were just getting to the good parts.”

 

“This is true,” Caleb says, scooting closer. 

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Nott says, “but only because Molly is definitely going to mess up and blow this whole place up.”

 

Molly ignores this, saying goodbye with a wink.

 

And so Caleb resumes what they had been doing before he had left to refill their cups, reading the spells, explaining the theory behind them with rapid, hushed words.  It’s dreadfully boring, and Molly imagines he is absorbing absolutely none of it.  But the look in Caleb’s eyes, the low murmured tones of explanation against Molly’s ears… That could make anything exciting.

 

Caleb grabs Molly’s hand in both of his, turning his fingers one-by-one until they are held in some sort of clawed gesture.

 

“Like this,” he is saying.  “You hold your hands like this, and it will channel the energy for the spell better.”

 

Molly isn’t looking at his hand; he is looking at Caleb’s face, now mere inches away.  This close, he can see everything—the days it has been since his last shave, the bright blue of his eyes, the small dark circles from years of lack of sleep.  His lips are still moving, and Molly tries to force himself to _listen_ instead of just watching them move and picturing them on his own.

 

“Mollymauk--?”

 

Molly glances up to find Caleb’s eyes turned on him, brows furrowed in confusion.

 

He swallows.  “Caleb, you will have to forgive me for this, but I appear to have missed everything you just said.”

 

This time, Caleb looks like he knows the reason why.  A ghost of a smile appears on his lips, and he inclines his head towards Molly’s hand, attempting to make him refocus.

 

“You have been a very good student,” he says, still smiling that secret smile.  “Do not disappoint me now.”

 

“I’ll try my damnedest,” says Molly, and copies the position of Caleb’s hand with his own. 

 

Caleb adjusts his thumb, then slides his hand along the back of Molly’s, mirroring the position.  His other hand encircles Molly’s wrist loosely, thumb rubbing up towards his palm.  The magic in the air around them shifts, and Molly can practically hear the hum as it is sucked close, not into _his_ hand but into Caleb’s, pressed against his.  

 

A small flame flickers to life in Molly’s palm.

 

The heat is intense, but gentle at the same time, as the flame licks his fingers and dances and winds through the air.  Molly doesn’t mind in the slightest.

 

A giddy laugh bubbles up in his throat, and Caleb guides his hand in a circle over the table, flame following along with it.

 

“I know it can be boring,” he says.  “Studying the magic, that is.  It took me a long while to learn, even for something as small as this.”

 

Molly closes his fingers like a cage around the flame, and watches as it burns more orange.  He opens his hand once more, and it brightens.

 

“It’s magnificent, small or not.”

 

Caleb tilts his head away, bashful.  The flame flickers out, but Caleb’s hands remain where they are, idly rubbing the remaining prickles of magic off of Molly’s skin until satisfied they are gone.  He glances back, and Molly cuts him off before he can even attempt to downplay himself.

 

“It is an amazing feat, to be able to do magic like you do.”

 

Caleb holds his gaze, and that secret smile returns.  “You are quite magical yourself, my friend.”

 

* * *

 

 

Molly stares at the hole in the ground, dread seeping through every fiber of his being at the thought of descending blindly into the darkness.  It shouldn’t bother him that much; they’ve done stupider things.  But every time he attempts to blink his fears away, the inside of his eyelids are painted with pictures of a grave, and dirt caked in his fingernails, and tears streaking down his face.

 

“Well, I guess here goes nothing,” says Fjord, and drops down into the hole, guided by Nott’s feather spell.

 

Jester follows, whispering a prayer to the Traveler, her skirt poofing up around her as she descends.  Down the hole, Molly hears a yelp as she lands on Fjord below.

 

“Sure, let’s split the party,” grumbles Beau, shaking her head at the darkness below.  She turns to Molly. “You keep an eye on them, alright?  Make sure you don’t wake whatever fuck-ass god is hiding down there.”

 

“We have done stupider things than splitting the party,” says Yasha.

 

“ _You_ keep Caleb safe,” adds Nott, pointing a finger at Beau.  “You make sure nothing happens to him out _there_ while I’m down _here_.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” says Beau, and trudges back down the tunnel out of sight, to keep watch by the front of the mines.  Yasha follows.

 

Nott turns to Molly.  “Your turn, sparkly man.”

 

Molly must laugh, because he feels a puff of air exit his mouth.  But he doesn’t mean it, because he is staring at the opening of the ground and the ground is staring back.

 

Footsteps sound in the dark behind him, and he turns to see if Beau has returned, only to see Caleb enter the tunnel, striding closer with determined steps.  Before Molly can even open his mouth to greet him, Caleb’s hands are fisted in the lapels of his coat, giving him a sharp _tug_.  He stumbles forward, catching himself on Caleb’s chest, and then lips are on his, warm and firm and insisting.

 

Caleb kisses like his fire, and Molly wishes he had time to be consumed. But not a few seconds go by before Caleb is pulling back, resting his forehead against Molly’s and staring at him with something unreadable in his expression.

 

He blinks back at him with startled eyes and blurts the first thing that comes to mind:  “Mr. Caleb, I think I quite like you.”

 

Caleb nods, eyes downcast as one hand comes up to cup Molly’s cheek, patting twice.  “Time for that later.  You—don’t die down there, ja? There is much to speak about if you do not die.”

 

Molly reaches up instinctively, covering Caleb’s hand with his own.  He nods, eyes scouring every inch of the face in front of him.  “I guess I can’t die, in that case,” he says.

 

Caleb steps back, hands releasing Molly.  He runs a hand over his forehead, through his hair, straightens himself, nods at Nott.

 

“Good luck, my friend.” 

 

The hole is no longer as fearsome when Molly looks back at it.  He takes a step toward it, glancing once more at Caleb, hopeful smile on his lips.

 

“I’ll see you soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

With a huff, Beau stares down at the tarot card in her hand.

 

“Alright, man, you got me,” she says, placing The Empress on the ground in front of Molly, next to his Judgment card. “Ask away.”

 

Molly grins at her, leans back, palms in the dirt, squinting up at the stars that aren’t obscured by their campfire light.  The night is quiet, save for the chirping of bugs around them and the gentle snoring of a few of their sleeping companions.  He thinks for a moment.

 

“What is the worst lie you’ve ever told?” he asks, tilting his chin back down to look at her.

 

She raises an eyebrow.  “In terms of success or morality?”

 

“Either.”

 

Puffing out her cheeks, she shrugs.  “Fuck, I mean, you’ve seen me tell a lot of bad lies.  Remember that time I said I liked you?”

 

“Can’t say I do.”

 

“Well I did, so there’s one, but if we’re being serious—oh, _fuck_ me, yeah. Okay.  There was a time where I tried to impress this girl I met at a bar by pretending that I was a member of this dance troupe that had been passing through town.  And she wanted a demonstration.”

 

Molly presses his fingers to his grin, nodding.  “Do go on.”

 

“Well, I was, y’know, maybe a _few_ tankards in, so yeah, of course I was gonna fuckin’ commit to it.  So I get up on this table and make a goddamn fool of myself and—she’s watching me this whole time, egging me on, smiling and clapping and all that shit.  _After_ the barkeep kicks me out, she tells me, she’s the head dancer in the troupe.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Molly breathes.

 

“Yeah.  So, not passing back through there anytime soon.”  She nods at the cards on the ground between them.  “One more, before we switch watches?”

 

“Of course.  You know I like our little games.”

 

She snorts, grabbing a new card from the deck.  “Only because you rig it to win so fuckin’ much.”  With a dramatic flourish (perhaps mimicking him), she presents to him The Tower.

 

Molly glances at the card in his own hand, sighing at the sight of The Lovers.  He flips it over, raising his eyebrow.  “You were saying?”

 

“That’s more like it.”  Like a cat, Beau leans back, stretching her arms out in front of her.  Her knuckles crack, and Molly almost wonders if she is trying to appear threatening or if that is her natural state.  He settles on the latter.

 

Easing back into her position, she fixes Molly with a much more serious look. 

 

“What are you doing with Caleb?”

 

Molly blinks.  “With Caleb?”

 

“I’m not stupid, or _blind_.  I see the flirtation, the—the fuckin’ googly eyes and hand touches and _Ooh, Mr. Caleb, Mr. Mollymauk, blah blah blah_.”  She scrunches her face up, like she is not enjoying having brought this up, and sighs.  “Look, I just wanna make sure…you’re gonna be good for him.  He’s been through a lot of shit.”

 

Molly swallows, trying his best to match her serious atmosphere.  And it is serious, really, so when he next speaks, it is with complete honesty.

 

“Beauregard, believe me when I say that I do not have much experience whatsoever with having feelings for people.  Or, really, people in general, not compared to the rest of you.  But _these_ feelings are—are really good, and I only want for him to be able to feel good too.”

 

Beau stares at him for a long moment, nodding almost imperceptibly.  Then, she jumps to her feet, shaking out her limbs and gagging. 

 

“Let’s wake the others, yeah?”

 

She cares about Caleb a great deal, Molly thinks, and in that moment feels as if he understands Beau more than he ever has.  He smiles to himself, and pushes up off the ground to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

When they next make it back to a city—civilization—there is something different in the air.

 

There is something different in the way that Caleb watches him from afar, from the way he doesn’t shy away when their eyes meet.  There is something different in the way their knuckles brush by their sides as they make their way to the nearest inn.  There is something different in the way he drinks a celebratory ale, eyes trained on Molly the whole while his throat bobs.  And, Molly remembers, there is something different about having survived yet another adventure—something yet to be said.

 

It begins storming before the night is over, but the air is charged with something beyond lightning.

 

When Caleb makes his leave from the table, bidding Nott goodnight with a soft ruffle to her hair, Molly finds himself following.

 

He stumbles up the stairs, steps grown sloppy not from the drink but from the hope, the nervousness, the fear.  By the time he makes it into the dim hallway where their rooms are, Caleb is standing outside his door, key in hand.

 

Caleb turns at the sound of his footsteps, and Molly reduces the space between them to just inches.

 

“I didn’t die,” says Molly, and the look that Caleb gives him is enough to dispel any sort of fear he had been feeling.  It is replaced instead with joy, and fire.

 

Molly knows more than to believe that a look is an invitation, but there is something about the mere semblance of solitude after days on the road that emboldens him. 

 

The “Mollymauk,” is a mere sigh on Caleb’s lips before Molly is tasting them, sandwiching the long line of Caleb’s body between his and the door behind them.  Caleb’s hands come up to cradle Molly’s face, as the air ripples around them from the unmistakable channeling of the arcane.  Molly feels the familiar pinpricks of magic against his face.  One of Caleb’s hands slides up, through his hair and over his horn.  The fingers tighten in his curls; he gasps against Caleb’s mouth.

 

Caleb pulls back an inch, taking a breath.

 

“Ja,” he says, voice thick.  “And there is…much to speak about.”

 

Molly reaches up and captures Caleb’s hands in his own.  He brings them in front of his face, fanning kisses across the knuckles.

 

“You don’t have to say anything now if you don’t want to, love.  There is time, and we—we are in a hallway of a crowded inn, and our friends are drunk downstairs.  And we have time.”

 

A ghost of a smile appears on Caleb’s lips.  He shakes his head, an unspoken, _now is the perfect time_.  And then, hey says:

 

“I think I am quite taken with you, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”

 

* * *

 

 

The moonlight filters through the curtains, and Molly feels content.  In front of him stands Caleb, devoid of coat for once in such a long time, hair untied and hanging loose just above his shoulders.  The moonlight glows silver across the panes of his face and the angles of his body.

 

Carefully, Caleb’s fingers slide under the edge of Molly’s coat, and Molly feels it fall from his shoulders, pooling on the bed around him.  The room is chilled, refreshing from the crowded tavern downstairs, and Caleb’s hands ease warmth back into his arms with a faint prickling of magic.

 

Molly stands, taking a step closer into Caleb’s space and looping his arms gently around his waist.

 

Caleb takes a breath, and says nothing.

 

“I’ve always thought you have such nice hands,” Molly says, almost to himself.

 

Caleb glances down, the prickling warmth moving up Molly’s bicep to the junction between his neck and shoulder, rubbing the tension from it.

 

“I know,” Caleb says softly.  After a moment, he continues, “I do not understand why you like them.  I have never even been able to pretend to understand that.  They are…terrible things, and have done terrible, truly terrible things, and I do not think—“

 

Molly holds a finger to Caleb’s lips, silencing him.  “I think they are lovely things.  And I think everyone’s hands have done terrible things, so that doesn’t matter so much to me.”  His finger slides over Caleb’s lips, across his freshly-shaven cheeks, hooking behind his jaw.  “I think they are powerful, and gentle, and…can make a man come undone in a number of ways.”

 

It’s quiet for a moment, save for their breathing.  And then:

 

“You said it was an utter shame, once, to keep my hands off of you.”

 

Molly finds himself laughing, thinking back to that day in the mines.  “Why, I _never knew_ you had heard that, Mr. Caleb.”

 

Caleb blushes.  “Regardless of whether or not you ever believed that lie, I…well, I am offering now.”

 

“Offering?”

 

“To never keep them off of you again.  Or, ah, to prevent such shames from happening.”

 

Molly swallows, grin slipping from his lips as the words sink in. 

 

“You’re being serious?” he asks.

 

Caleb nods, just slightly, hair brushing against Molly’s forehead, breaths mingling in proximity.  “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I would like nothing more than to be able to do so, right now.”

 

Molly’s heart beats heavily in his chest.  He drinks in the sight of the moonlit man in front of him, eyes scanning futilely for any hint of this being a dream, something far too good to be true.  But this is true.  And good, and more than he ever could have hoped for.

 

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to Caleb’s lips, and obliges.

 

* * *

 

Molly can’t remember the first time he noticed Caleb’s hands.

 

Now, after the months of traveling together, the only thing he knows is that he never wants to stop thinking about them.

 

They are thin but strong, and calloused but soft, and his fingernails are trimmed short when they can be.  They are occasionally caked in a thin layer of dirt and grime, though Molly scrubs it all away when he gets the chance.  And they are ever so careful, each movement intentional and calculated, far too versed in making Molly unravel. 

 

Molly has seen a lot of hands in his days, knows how to watch hands to know when he is getting swindled, knows exactly which hands are bound to make him weak.

 

Caleb’s hands are something else.  

**Author's Note:**

> anyways my tumblr is @johncherrystone pls hit me with any and all feedback bc i'm a slut for validation :-)


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